Blazed Trail Stories, and Stories of the Wild Life
Page 6
VI
THE LIFE OF THE WINDS OF HEAVEN
I
Barbara hesitated long between the open-work stockings and theplain-silk, but finally decided on the former. Then she vouchsafed apleased little smile to her pleasant little image in the mirror, andstepped through the door into the presence of her aunt. The aunt wasappropriately astonished. This was the first time Barbara had spread herdainty chiffon wings in the air of the great north woods. Strangely,daintily incongruous she looked now against the rough walls of thecabin, against the dark fringe of the forest beyond the door.
Barbara was a petite little body with petite little airs of babylikedecision. She knew that her greatest attraction lay in the strangebackward poise of her head, bringing her chin, pointed and adorable, tothe tilt of maddening charm. She was perfectly aware, too, of her veryfull red lips, the colour of cherries, but with the satiny finish of thepeach; and she could not remain blind to the fact that her light hairand her velvet-black eyes were in rare and delicious contrast. All thesethings, and more, Barbara knew because a dozen times a day her mirrorswore them true. That she was elusively, teasingly, judicially, calmlydistracting she knew because, ever since she could remember, men hadtold her so with varying degrees of bitter humour. She accepted thefact, and carried herself in all circumstances as a queen surrounded byan indefinite number of rights matured to her selection.
After her plain old backwoods aunt had admired and exclaimed over thebutterfly so unexpectedly developed from the brown tailor-madechrysalis, Barbara determined to take a walk. She knew that over throughthat cool, fascinating forest, only a half-mile away, dwelt the Adamses.The Adamses, too, were only of the woods people, but they were human,and chiffon was chiffon, in the wilderness as in the towns. So Barbaraannounced her intention, and stepped into the sunlight.
The parasol completed her sense of happiness. She raised it, andslanted it over her shoulder, and drew one of its round tips across herface, playing out to herself a pretty little comedy as she sauntereddeliberately down the trail between the stumps and tangled blackberryvines of the clearing. She tilted her chin, and glanced shyly frombeneath the brim of her big hat at the solemn stumps, and looked just aspretty as she possibly could for the benefit of the bold, noisy finches.With her light summer dress and her picture-hat and her open-workstockings and her absurd little high-heeled, silver-buckled shoes shehad somehow regained the feminine self-confidence which her thick bootsand sober brown woods dress had filched from her. For the first time inthis whimsical visit to a new environment she was completely happy. Dearlittle Barbara; she was only eighteen.
Pretty soon the trail entered the great, cool, green forest. Barbaraclosed her parasol and carried it under one arm, while with the samehand she swept her skirt clear of the ground. She was now a _grandemarquise_ in the Forest of Fontainebleau. Through little round holes inthe undergrowth she could see away down between the trees to dashes ofsunlight and green shadows. Always Barbara conducted herself as though,in the vista, a cavalier was about to appear, who would sweep off hisplumed hat in a bow of knightly adoration. She practised the courtesy inreturn, sinking on one little high-pointed heel with a downward droop ofher pretty head and an upward cast of her pretty eyes.
"Oui, c'est un reve, un reve doux d'amour," she hummed, as the hem ofher outspread skirt just swept the ground.
"_Phew!_" came a most terrible, dreadful sound from the thicket close athand.
Barbara dropped her parasol, and clasped her heart with both hands, andscreamed. From the thicket two slender ears pointed inquiringly towardher, two wide brown eyes stared frightened into hers, a delicate nosedilated with terror. "_Phew!_" snorted the deer again, and vanished in aseries of elastic stiff-legged springs.
"Oh!" cried Barbara. "You horrid thing! How you frightened me!"
She picked up her parasol, and resumed her journey in some perturbationof mind, reflecting on the utter rudeness of the deer. Gradually thetrail seemed to become more difficult. After a time it was obstructedby the top of a fallen basswood. Barbara looked about her. She was noton the trail at all.
This was distinctly annoying. Barbara felt a little resentful on accountof it. She gathered her skirts closely about her ankles, and tried topick her way through the undergrowth to the right. The brush wasexceedingly difficult to avoid, and a little patch of briers was worse.Finally an ugly stub ripped a hole in the chiffon skirt. This wasunbearable. Barbara stamped her foot in vexation. She wanted to cry; andfully made up her mind to do so as soon as she should have regained thetrail. In a little while the high beech-ridge over which she had beentravelling ended in a narrow cedar-swamp. Then Barbara did a foolishthing; she tried to cross the swamp.
At first she proceeded circumspectly, with an eye to the chiffon. It wastorn in a dozen places. Then she thrust one dear little slipper throughthe moss into black water. Three times the stiff straight rods of thetamarack whipped her smartly across the face. When finally she emergedon the other side of the hundred feet of that miserable cedar-swamp, shehad ceased to hold up the chiffon skirt, and was most vexed.
"I think you're just _mean_!" she cried, pettishly, to the still forest;and then caught her breath in the silence of awe.
The forest had become suddenly unfriendly; its kindliness had somehowvanished. In all directions it looked the same; straight toweringtrunks, saplings, undergrowth. It had shut her in with a wall of green,and hurry in whatever direction she would, Barbara was always inclosedin apparently the same little cell of leaves.
Frightened, but with determination, she commenced to walk rapidly in thedirection she believed would lead her out. The bushes now caught at herunheeded. She tore through briers, popples, moose-maples alike. Thechiffon was sadly marred, the picture-hat stained and awry, the bravelittle shoes with their silver buckles and their pointed high heels weredull with wet. And suddenly, as the sun shadows began to lift in thelate afternoon, her determined stock of fortitude quite ran out. Shestopped short. All about her were the same straight towering trunks, thesaplings, the undergrowth. Nothing had changed. It was useless.
She dropped to the ground and gave way to her wild terror, weeping withthe gulping sobs of a frightened child, but even in extremity dabbingher eyes from time to time with an absurd tiny handkerchief ofdrawn-work border.
Poor little Barbara: she was lost!
II
After a while, subtly, she felt that someone was standing near her. Shelooked up.
The somebody was a man. He was young. Barbara saw three things--that hehad kindly gray eyes, which just now were twinkling at her amusedly;that the handkerchief about his neck was clean; and that the line of hisjaw was unusually clear cut and fine. An observant person would havenoticed further that the young man carried a rifle and a pack, that hewore a heavily laden belt about his waist, and moccasins on his feet,that his blue-flannel shirt, though clean, was faded, that his skin wasas brown as pine-bark. Barbara had no use for such details. The eye waskindly, the jaw was strong, the neatness indicated the gentleman. And astrong, kindly gentleman was just what poor little lost Barbara neededthe most. Unconsciously she tilted her pointed chin forward adorably,and smiled.
"Oh, now it's all right, isn't it?" said she.
"I am glad," he replied, the look of amusement deepening in his grayeyes. "And a moment ago it was all wrong. What was the matter?"
"I am lost," answered Barbara, contentedly, as one would say, "My shoesare a little dusty."
"That's bad," sympathised the other. "Where are you lost from?"
"The Adamses' or the Maxwells', I don't know which. I started to go fromone to the other. Then there was the deer, and so I got lost."
"I see," he agreed with entire assurance. "And now what are you going todo?"
"I am not going to do anything. You are to take me home."
"To the Adamses or the Maxwells?"
"To whichever is nearest."
The young man seemed to be debating. Barbara glanced at his thoughtful,strong face from
under the edge of her picture-hat, which slyly she hadrearranged. She liked his face. It was so good-humoured.
"It is almost sunset," replied the youth at length. "You can see theshadows are low. How do you hope to push through the woods after dark?There are wild animals--wolves!" he added, maliciously.
Barbara looked up again with sudden alarm.
"But what shall we do?" she cried, less composedly. "You _must_ take mehome!"
"I can try," said he, with the resignation of the man who can but die.
The tone had its effect.
"What do you advise?" she asked.
"That we camp here," he proposed, calmly, with an air of finality.
"_Oh!_" dissented Barbara in alarm. "Never! I am afraid of the woods! Itwill be wet and cold! I am hungry! My feet are just sopping!"
"I will watch all night with my rifle," he told her. "I will fix you atent, and will cook you a supper, and your feet shall not be wet andcold one moment longer than you will."
"Isn't your home nearer?" she asked.
"My home is where night finds me," he replied.
Barbara meditated. It was going to be dreadful. She knew she would catchher death of cold. But what could she do about it?
"You may fix the wet-feet part," she assented at last.
"All right," agreed the young man with alacrity. He unslung the packfrom his back, and removed from the straps a little axe. "Now, I am notgoing to be gone but a moment," he assured her, "and while I am away,you must take off your shoes and stockings and put these on." He hadbeen fumbling in his pack, and now produced a pair of thick woollenlumberman's socks.
Barbara held one at arm's length in each hand, and looked at them. Thenshe looked up at the young man. Then they both laughed.
While her new protector was away, Barbara not only made the suggestedchanges, but she did marvels with the chiffon. Really, it did not lookso bad, considering.
When the young man returned with an armful of hemlock bark and theslivers of a pine-stump, he found her sitting bolt upright on a log, herfeet tucked under her. Before the fire he shortly hung the two webs ofgossamer and the two dear little ridiculous little high-heeled shoes,with their silver buckles. Then in a most business-like fashion hepitched a diminutive shelter-tent. With equal expedition he built asecond fire between two butternut-logs, produced a frying-pan, and setabout supper.
The twilight was just falling. Somehow the great forest had lost its airof unfriendliness. The birds were singing in exactly the same way theyused to sing in the tiny woods of the Picnic Grounds. It was difficultto believe in the wilderness. The young man moved here and there withaccustomed ease, tending his pot and pan, feeding the fire. Barbarawatched him interestedly. Gradually the conviction gained on her that hewas worth while, and that he had not once glanced in her direction sincehe had begun his preparations. At the moment he was engaged in turningover sizzling things in the pan.
"If you please," said Barbara, with her small air of decision, "I amvery thirsty."
"You will have to wait until I go to the spring," replied the manwithout stirring.
Barbara elevated her small nose in righteous indignation. After a longtime she just peeped in his direction. He was laughing to himself. Shehastily elevated her nose again. After all it was very lonely in thewoods.
"Supper is ready," he announced after a time.
"I do not think I care for any," she replied, with dignity. She was verytired and hungry and cross, and her eyes were hot.
"Oh, yes you do," he insisted, carelessly. "Come now, before it getscold."
"I tell you I do not care for any," she returned, haughtily.
For answer he picked her up bodily, carried her ten feet, and depositedher on another log. Beside her lay a clean bit of bark containing abroiled deer-steak, toasted bread, and a cup of tea. She struggledangrily.
"Don't be a fool," the man commanded, sternly, "you need food. You willeat supper, now!"
Barbara looked up at him with wide eyes. Then she began to eat thevenison. By and by she remarked, "You _are_ rather nice," and after shehad drained the last drop of tea she even smiled, a trifle humbly."Thank you," said she.
It was now dark, and the night had stolen down through the sentry treesto the very outposts of the fire. The man arranged the rubber blanketbefore it. Barbara sat upon the blanket and leaned her back against thelog. He perched above her, producing a pipe.
"May I?" he asked.
Then, when he had puffed a few moments in quiet content, he inquired:"How did you come to get lost?"
She told him.
"That was very foolish," he scolded, severely. "Don't you know anybetter than to go into the woods without your bearings? It wasidiotic!"
"Thank you," replied Barbara, meekly.
"Well, it was!" he insisted, the bronze on his cheek deepening a little.
She watched him for some time, while he watched the flames. She liked tosee the light defining boldly the clean-shaven outline of his jaw; sheliked to guess at the fire of his gray eyes beneath the shadow of hisbrow. Not once did he look toward her. Meekly she told herself that thiswas just. He was dreaming of larger things, seeing in the coals picturesof that romantic, strenuous, mysterious life of which he was a part. Hehad no room in the fulness of his existence for such as she--she, sillylittle Barbara, whose only charm was a maddening fashion of pointingoutward her adorable chin. She asked him about it, this life of thewinds of heaven.
"Are you always in the woods?" she inquired.
"Not always," said he.
"But you live in them a great deal?"
"Yes."
"You must have a great many exciting adventures."
"Not many."
"Where did you come from just now?"
"South."
"Where are you going?"
"Northwest."
"What are you going to do there?"
There ensued a slight pause before the stranger's reply. "Walk throughthe woods," said he.
"In other words, it's none of my business," retorted Barbara, a littletartly.
"Ah, but you see it's not entirely mine," he explained.
This offered a new field.
"Then you are on a mission?"
"Yes."
"Is it important?"
"Yes."
"How long is it going to take you?"
"Many years."
"What is your name?"
"Garrett Stanton."
"You are a gentleman, aren't you?"
A flicker of amusement twinkled subtly in the corner of his eye. "Isuppose you mean gently bred, college-educated. Do you think it's ofvast importance?"
Barbara examined him reflectively, her chin in her hand, her elbow onher knee. She looked at his wavy hair, his kindly, humorous gray eyes,the straight line of his fine-cut nose, his firm lips with the quaintupward twist of the corners, the fine contour of his jaw.
"No-o-o," she agreed, "I don't suppose it does. Only I know you _are_ agentleman," she added, with delightful inconsistence. Stanton bowedgravely to the fire in ironic acknowledgment.
"Why don't you ever look at me?" burst out Barbara, vexed. "Why do youstare at that horrid fire?"
He turned and looked her full in the face. In a moment her eyes droppedbefore his frank scrutiny. She felt the glow rising across her forehead.When she raised her head again he was staring calmly at the fire asbefore, one hand clasped under his arm, the other holding the bowl ofhis brier pipe.
"Now," said he, "I will ask a few questions. Won't this all-nightabsence alarm your relatives?"
"Oh, no. I often spend the night at the Adamses'. They will think I amthere."
"Parents are apt to be anxious."
"But mine are not here, you see."
"What is your name?"
"Barbara Lowe."
He fell silent. Barbara was distinctly piqued. He might have exhibiteda more flattering interest.
"Is that all you want to know about me?" she cried in an injured tone.
"Why, who has been telling you about me?" cried Barbara, astonished.
Stanton smiled. "Nobody," he replied. "Don't you know that we woodsmenlive by our observation? Do you see anything peculiar about that tree?"
Barbara examined the vegetable in question attentively. "No," sheconfessed at last.
"There is an animal in it. Look again."
"I can see nothing," repeated Barbara, after a second scrutiny.
Stanton arose. Seizing a brand from the fire, he rapped sharply on thetrunk. Then slowly what had appeared to be a portion of the hole beganto disintegrate, and in a moment a drowsy porcupine climbed rattling toa place of safety.
"That is how I know about you," explained the woodsman, returning to thefire. "Your remark about staying overnight told me that you werevisiting the Maxwells rather than the Adamses; I knew the latter must berelatives, because a girl who wears pretty summer dresses would notvisit mere friends in the wilderness; you would get tired of this lifein a few weeks, and so will not care to stay longer; you wear yourschool-pin still, so you are not yet 'out'; the maker's name in yourparasol caused me to guess you from Detroit."
"And about my being an only child?"
"Well," replied Stanton, "you see, you have a little the manner of onewho has been a trifle----"
"Spoiled!" finished Barbara, with wicked emphasis.
Stanton merely laughed.
"That is not nice," she reproved, with vast dignity.
A cry, inexpressibly mournful, quivered from the woods close at hand.
"Oh, what is that?" she exclaimed.
"Our friend the porcupine. Don't be frightened."
Down through the trees sighed a little wind. "_Whoo! whoo! whoo_!"droned an owl, monotonously. The sparks from the fire shot up andeddied. A chill was in the air. Barbara's eyes grew heavier and heavier.She tucked her feet under her and expanded in the warmth like afireside kitten. Then, had she known it, the man was looking at her,looking at her with a strange, wistful tenderness in his gray eyes.Dear, harmless, innocent little Barbara, who had so confidingly trustedin his goodness!
"Come, little girl," he said, softly, at last.
He arose and held out his hand. Awakened from her abstraction, shelooked at him with a faint smile and eyes from which all coquetry hadgone, leaving only the child.
"Come," he repeated, "time to turn in."
She arose dutifully. The little tent really looked inviting. The balsambed proved luxurious, soft as feathers.
"When you are ready," he told her, "let me know. I want to open thetent-flap for the sake of warmth."
The soft woollen blanket was very grateful. When the flap was open,Barbara found that a second fire had been built with a backing of greenlogs so arranged as to reflect the heat directly into her shelter.
She was very sleepy, yet for a long time she lay awake. The noises ofthe woods approached mysteriously, and drew about the little camp theirmystic circle. Some of them were exceedingly terrifying, but Barbaradid not mind them, for he sat there, his strong, graceful figuresilhouetted against the light, smoking his pipe in contemplation.Barbara watched him for a long time, until finally the firelightblurred, and the great, solemn shadows stopped dancing across theforest, and she dozed.
Hours later, as it seemed, some trifling sound awakened her. The heatstill streamed gratefully into the tiny shelter; the solemn shadowsstill danced across the forest; the contemplative figure still staredinto the embers, strongly silhouetted by the firelight. A tendercompunction stole into Barbara's tender little heart.
"The poor dear," said she, "he has no place to sleep. He is guarding mefrom the dangers of the forest." Which was quite ridiculous, as anywoodsman will know.
Her drowsy eyes watched him wistfully--her mystery, her hero of romance.Again the fire blurred, again the solemn shadows paused. A last thoughtshaped itself in Barbara's consciousness.
"Why, he must be very old," she said to herself. "He must betwenty-six."
So she fell asleep.
III
Barbara awoke to the sun and the crisp morning air and a delightfulfeeling that she had slept well and had not been uncomfortable at all.The flap of the tent was discreetly closed. When ready she peepedthrough the crack and saw Stanton bending over the fire.
In a moment he straightened and approached the tent. When within a fewfeet he paused. Through the hollow of his hands he cried out the long,musical, morning call of the woodsman.
"R-o-o-oll out!" he cried. The forest took up the sound in dyingmodulations.
For answer Barbara threw aside the tent-flap and stepped into the sun.
"Good-morning," said she.
"_Salut!_" he replied. "Come and I will show you the spring."
"I am sorry I cannot offer you a better variety for your breakfast. Itis only the supper over again," he explained, after she had returned,and had perched like a fluffy bird of paradise on the log. Her cheekswere very pink from the cold water, and her eyes were very beautifulfrom the dregs of dreams, and her hair very glittering from the kissingof the early sun. And, wonderful to say, she forgot to thrust out herpointed chin in the fashion so entirely adorable.
She ate with relish, for the woods-hunger was hers. Stanton saidnothing. The time was pregnant with unspoken things. All the charmingelements of the little episode were crystallising for them, andinstinctively Barbara felt that in a few moments she would be compelledto read their meaning.
At last the man said, without stirring:
"Well, I suppose we'd better be going."
"I suppose so," she replied.
They sat there some time longer, staring abstractedly at the kindlygreen forest; then Stanton abruptly arose and began to construct hispack. The girl did not move.
"Come," he said at last.
She arose obediently.
"Follow close behind me," he advised.
"Yes," said she.
They set off through the greenery. It opened silently before them.Barbara looked back. It had already closed silently behind them,shutting out the episode forever. The little camp had ceased to exist;the great, ruthless, calm forest had reclaimed its own. Nothing wasleft.
Nothing was left but the memory and the dream--yes, and the Beginning.Barbara knew it must be that--the Beginning. He would come to see her.She would wear the chiffon, another chiffon, altogether glorious. Shewould sit on the highest root of the old elm, and he would lie at herfeet. Then he could tell her of the enchanted land, of the life of thewinds of heaven. He would be her knight, to plunge into the wildernesson the Quest, returning always to her. The picture became at onceinexpressibly dear to her.
Then she noticed that he had stopped, and was looking at her indeprecation, and was holding aside the screen of moose-maples. Beyondshe could see the familiar clearing, and the smoke from the Maxwellcabin.
She had slept almost within sight of her own doorstep.
"Please forgive me," he was saying. "I meant it only as an interestinglittle adventure. It has been harmless enough, surely--to you."
His eyes were hungry. Barbara could not find words.
"Good-by," he concluded. "Good-by. You will forgive me in time--orforget, which is much the same. Believe me, if I have offended you, mypunishment is going to be severe. Good-by."
"Good-by," said Barbara, a little breathlessly. She had alreadyforgotten the trick. She could think only that the forest, theunfriendly forest, was about to recall her son.
"Good-by," he repeated again. He should have gone, but did not. Thesituation became strained.
"When are you coming to see me?" she inquired at length. "I shall behere two weeks yet."
"Never," he replied.
"What do you mean?" she asked after a moment.
"After Painted Rock, the wilderness," he explained, almost bitterly,"the wilderness and solit
ude for many years--forever!"
"Don't go until to-morrow," she urged.
"I must."
"Why?"
"Because I must be at Painted Rock by Friday, and to reach it I musttravel fast and long."
"And if you do not?"
"My mission fails," he replied.
They stood there silent. Barbara dug tiny holes with the tip of herparasol.
"And that is ruin?" she asked softly, without looking up.
"I have struggled hard for many years. The result is this chance."
"I see," she replied, bending her head lower. "It would be a veryfoolish thing for you to stay, then, wouldn't it?"
He did not reply.
"But you are going to, aren't you?" she went on in a voice almostinaudible. "You must not go like that. I ask you to stay."
Again the pause.
"I cannot," he replied.
She looked up. He was standing erect and tall, his face set in thebronze lines of a resolution, his gray eyes levelled straight and steadybeyond her head. Instantly her own spirit flashed.
"I think now you'd better go!" said she superbly.
They faced each other for a moment. Then Barbara dropped her head again,extending her hand.
"You do not know," she whispered, "I have much to forgive."
He hesitated, then touched the tips of her fingers with his lips. Shedid not look up. With a gesture, which she did not see, he stooped tohis pack and swung into the woods.
Barbara stood motionless. Not a line of her figure stirred. Only thechiffon parasol dropped suddenly to the ground.
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STORIES OF THE WILD LIFE